


Untitled Brock Lesnar/Dean Ambrose Post Goldberg Match

by RosemarysBabysitter (TashaElizabeth)



Series: Clutch [2]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: BDSM, Blow Jobs, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 01:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9410720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TashaElizabeth/pseuds/RosemarysBabysitter
Summary: “I lost.”“Okay, so what?"





	

Brock sat alone in his hotel room and stared at his hands. His gloves were still on and he was looking at the letters above his knuckles and trying to make them reform into his name. He had been dripping sweat when Paul had rushed him from the arena, but he was dried now and sticky, aware of his smell and screaming inside his head to get up and do something about it. He was cold too, skin drawn up tight on his bare chest. Chilled through and, very mildly, shaking.

He sat like that for a period of time that he couldn’t really follow. It was already dark and it stayed dark and then Dean arrived.

Brock recognized the sound of him in the room beyond his bedroom, the peculiar disaster of his gait and the low, unrelenting tones of his words against Paul’s louder, shriller voice. Dean was coming in the door a moment later, wincing as he shut the door against Paul’s animated face. He locked it, opened both eyes to catch Brock’s attention.

“Hey babe,” he said. That well worn greeting slipped between them and fell flat when Brock didn’t respond to it. Dean cocked his head to the side. “You okay?”

“I lost,” Brock said flatly.

“Yeah, but are you okay?” Dean gestured to Brock’s body as though it was separate from him, a machine under his wary control. Dean’s hair was wet and he hadn’t gotten all the tape off his wrists, just ripped it back off his knuckles and let the ends flap against his hands. “You, I mean?”

Brock swallowed.

“Babe?”

“I lost,” Brock said. Obviously. That’s what was wrong with him. That and he couldn’t take his gloves off.

Dean came toward him and put a hand on either side of his face, tilting his head up to look into his eyes. “Did a trainer see you?”

Brock sighed in the negative and pulled his head from Dean’s grasp. He looked at his gloves and told himself to take them off.

Dean followed his gaze and then took off the gloves off him easily. Tossing them to the side, he began to squeeze each of Brock’s fingers between his thumb and forefinger, checking for broken bones. Which was ridiculous. Brock didn’t have any broken bones. There hadn’t been time for that.

Content that his fingers were intact, Dean knelt by the bed and put a hot hand Brock’s ribs, working his palm up one side of his torso and down the other.

Brock hissed.

“Broken?” Dean asked.

Brock shook his head. “Bruised,” he said. “Maybe fractured. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, obviously,” Dean quipped. 

“I lost.”

“Okay.” Dean’s eyes were rolling.

“Okay?!”

“Okay, so what?

Brock looked at him, uncomprehending.

Dean moved Brock’s hands aside and climbed over his lap, one knee on either side of Brock’s huge thighs. Brock sighed and rested his forehead against Dean’s collarbone while Dean wrapped both arms around his shoulders and huddled down into the space Brock filled.

“It’s okay that you lost,” he said softly. “You can get pissed about it if you want. You can be sad.”

“Stop,” Brock said. 

Dean’s weight on top of him was slight but had a deep, bone settling warmth that he clutched at. It hurt. It hurt to get it and it hurt more to need it, to crave the feel of Dean’s touch.

“I don’t care that you lost,” Dean said, his voice a grating mumble. He traced his hand over the curve of Brock’s neck. “I’m proud of you for trying.”

“Don’t.”

“You’re a good boy, Brock.”

“Stop!” Brock stood up, pulling Dean up with him and then threw him, slamming him down on the thinly carpeted floor. Dean took the fall on the curve of his back and, grunting, rolled through it back over his head and landed with his feet on the floor. He rose, letting out a shaky breath and squirming against a flare of pain. He looked at Brock with displeasure.

There was noise in the next room. Paul had heard the crash of Dean’s body on the floor and had taken steps toward the bedroom to investigate. They waited tensely for his footsteps to retreat.

Brock took a step forward and then another and didn’t know what he was doing until he was falling down on one knee and pressing his face against Dean’s stomach, whimpering noises in his throat and tremors in his unbroken fingers.

“It’s okay,” Dean said again. Dean hadn’t flinched from him.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” He said it like he thought that was the problem. “I’m not going to try to convince you that you're wrong. I’m not going to reason with you because I know that doesn’t make you stop thinking what you’re thinking. I’m just gonna tell you this and you’re going to listen to me, got it?”

Brock nodded and looked up at him. Dean grabbed him by his good ear and twisted it, just enough to to knock the distant look out of his eyes. 

“You’re a good boy,” Dean said with conviction. “You are my good boy. Do you believe me?”

“No.”

Dean brought his hand back and slapped Brock in the face.

“Do you believe me?”

It stung, fresh and sweet like Minnesota winter.

“I want to,” Brock said, “but I can’t.”

Dean nodded, accepting that. “We’ll prove it then. Get up. You need a shower.”

Brock got up. 

It was another untraceable span of time but it felt like it took hours and hours until Dean’s face was worn out and drawn and all the muscle in Brock’s side had locked up and refused to work anymore. He’d dropped his gym shorts in the shower stall and washed off all the sweat and fear. Then he took off Dean’s clothes under his direction, piece by piece, peeled off all the bits of tape and gauze and washed him off from forehead to toes, scrubing his big hands through Dean’s ragged hair. He dried Dean off with the heavy hotel towel and got down on his knees on the tile to examine every inch.

He got a look at himself in the mirror then, naked on his knees and raising a towel to wipe at the crease of Dean’s pelvis, to pat over the curve of his ass. Brock liked the way he looked in that moment and then he flushed hard with a shudder of shame. Dean was looking down at him with a sly smile, tongue between his teeth, gentle eyes.

Dean brought him back to his feet, brought him over to the bed, put him down on the cool, white sheets. Dean was very clear, speaking slow and low into Brock’s ear. He did everything Dean told him to. He was soft and eager and he didn’t come until Dean said he could.

He heard Paul yell through the door at one point, something about going to bed and call him but Brock was too out of it, too down in a place past words to respond.

In the morning he got up groggy and went to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. He didn’t like the look of that loser in the mirror. Didn’t like the way the water on his face made him seem sickly and weak. Didn’t like the hickey on his collarbone, up just high enough to peak over the neck of a t-shirt. Didn’t like his eyes.

Brock brought his arm up, examining the width of his bicep.

So it was the gym. It was always the gym, in the end. He would train and he would train and the next time he saw Goldberg, he would pulverize him. Break him into pieces so small that Brock would never have to think about him again. Brock nodded at himself in the mirror, wiped his face off with a hotel towel.

“Hey babe,” Dean said, coming into the bathroom barefoot. He was rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and came toward Brock on instinct, putting out a hand to touch Brock’s back in a soft and comforting way. Brock shrugged him off.

When he turned, Brock’s face was blank and his jaw was set and Dean nodded at him, just nodded, like he understood. And he probably did. Dean always seemed to know the ebb and flow of these things, the power and the submission, when to take and when to give. Brock couldn't do that. Brock didn’t understand shit.

He put a hand on Dean’s shoulder and shoved him down. Hard, so that his knees would sting on the bathroom tile. Dean let him. Brock’s dick was plenty long and thick even when it was soft and he took it out of his boxershorts and shoved it into Dean’s mouth. Let it get hard on the back of Dean’s tongue.

There was something going on. Something just out of Brock’s understanding. Something heavy and square, impossible to get his mind around. He grabbed the back of Dean’s head and pulled him forward, even when Dean gagged and choked. Dean didn’t struggle. Dean didn’t have to, he could take it, could swallow it, could take the pain or give it. Could understand whatever it was that that was going on between them. How it turned and shifted and battered Brock down. How it went warm and comforting and soothed Brock when nothing else would.

Brock hated it and he took that hate out on Dean’s jaw. He kept a hand there to force Dean’s head and guide his motions, but Dean knew how to stay slack, how to breath when he could manage and suck when Brock needed it. It didn’t take long, not with Brock’s anger up in his cheeks and his hips jerking forward so hard. Soon he was coming without warning or direction. He pulled Dean to his feet to kiss him, to ravage his mouth like that meant something. Thick tongue forcing into Dean’s swollen mouth and Dean hadn’t swallowed yet. The taste and texture of himself was heavy, slick against his teeth and sticky on his lips and Brock had to swallow it down, swallow it down and live with it.


End file.
